


This Is Just A Really Fucked Up Situation All Around, Maybe We Should Start By Addressing That Before We Get To Anything Else

by ghostchibi



Series: Arcverse [9]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Agender Character, Borderline Personality Disorder, Mental Health Issues, Other, Reconciliation, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-09-22 04:43:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9584084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostchibi/pseuds/ghostchibi
Summary: The official record of the day's events: Elder Maxson has a request for Sentinel Mitchell, and Sentinel Mitchell has some reservations about it.The off-the-books version of the catastrophe: Arthur asks Arc to send Danse a message so he can meet with and apologize face-to-face to Danse, and Arc gets pissed off at Arthur all over again.It's probably a good idea, though, to talk this out.-----A reconciliation between Danse and Maxson, facilitated by a hesitant Sole Survivor.





	1. I Know An Apology Is Necessary But I Don't Know If It'll Just Make Things Worse

**Author's Note:**

> Maxson having BPD has been on my mind lately, and so has the idea of Maxson and Danse reconciling, with a healthy understanding of where responsibility needs to be taken but also where responsibility shouldn't be taken because of the situation at hand. Is this vent fic? Maybe it's vent fic. I just need to write Maxson taking responsibility where he should and being told that not everything was his fault.

Arc stares at Maxson for a good, solid thirty seconds, before settling on yelling their response.

"Are you _fucking crazy?_ " To the Elder's credit, he at least looks a little bit ashamed of himself the moment Arc begins their response. "YOU, you fucking- this better be a fucking dream, because if it's not I'm going to put my fist in your face."

"You aren't dreaming, Sentinel, and I would advise you not to threaten your Elder with physical violence," Maxson snaps, although it lacks the usual aggression.

"Okay, so, we're going to put that aside for a second, okay? Don't 'Sentinel' me, and as far as I'm concerned right now you're not my Elder," Arc snarls. "This isn't Brotherhood business. Don't you dare hide behind your Brotherhood mask talking about this."

" _Fine_ ," Maxson retorts, answer just as snippy and anger-laden as Arc's words. "Then, Mitchell, all I am asking for is a yes or a no. If you aren't going to do it, then leave it. Don't come lecture me."

"Don't lecture you? 'Scuse me, Maxson, I think I've got plenty to lecture you about? Remember how you said, and I mean _you_ said, not Brotherhood Elder you, but you as in Arthur Maxson you, you told Danse to never show his face ever again? And what, you're gonna reverse that now because you felt a little bad about ruining his life?"

"I was not in the right state of mind," Maxson growls, and rubs his forehead with one hand. "I wasn't. I made a decision at a moment when I shouldn't have."

Arc slams both palms down on Maxson's desk. Maxson doesn't flinch at the noise.

This situation is, in Arc's opinion, completely fucking bonkers. They don't know why Maxson is asking this now, or what it is that's made Maxson change his mind. All that Arc knows is that Maxson has, out of the utterly incomprehensible blue, asked them to take a message to Danse. A message that Maxson has allowed Arc to read, and as far as Arc can tell, unless there's some sort of secret message embedded inside, is an apology letter and a request to see Danse again. It's written without any aggression or anger or threats. There is not a single word in the letter that betrays any sense of accusation. It's literally an apology letter with a request to see Danse. Not to mention that it's hand-written on paper.

What the utter fuck.

"Why now?" Arc asks. "Why now? It's been, what, a year now? Somewhere around there? I'm serious, why now?"

"I've had time to think about how to word that letter," Maxson replies. His hands are clasped in front of his face now, pressed against his mouth.

Arc stares again.

"How long have you been thinking about this?" they ask.

"A week after you convinced me not to have Danse killed."

"I need to fucking sit down," Arc breathes, and settles for turning around and leaning back against the desk. They can't really look at Maxson right now.

"Will you do it?" Maxson asks.

"What would you do if I said no?"

"I would burn that letter."

"This is so fucking selfish of you."

"I know."

"No, you don't. You haven't seen Danse since you left Bravo. You destroyed him. And now you want to come back."

"I don't want to do anything that would hurt him any further. But I need to apologize for what I did."

"For your sake, or his?"

"I need to apologize because I did something profoundly terrible to him and he deserves a damn apology."

Arc turns their head to look over their shoulder at Maxson.

"He does deserve an apology. But he also deserves to not be traumatized all over again."

"That's why I'm asking him. My apology is in that letter. But if he'll let me, if he can stand seeing me again, he should hear it from my mouth, from my face."

"You're unbelievable."

"Good."

"Good?"

"Good that you think that. Good that you don't think I'm perfect. Good that you think I'm out of my mind."

Arc turns around fully again, one hip still leaning against the desk. It digs in a little bit uncomfortably against the bone.

"I'd disobey a command from you in a heartbeat if I didn't agree with it. You know that, right?"

"I do." Maxson looks like he's about to reach for one of the glasses that seem to always be placed on his desk, although this one is empty and without an accompanying bottle next to it. "And yet here you are, my Sentinel."

"I don't understand you. Why do you trust me so much?" Arc asks, leaning in. "You promoted me right after I completely and utterly disobeyed an order by you. A major one. One that would have had a huge effect on the Brotherhood. And then you made me Sentinel. I don't think you actually like me enough to even think about promoting me above Knight."

"Ask me that question in a few days, and I'd probably profess my love to you."

"Excuse me?"

Maxson does reach for the glass this time, although all he does is hold it in one hand and turn it as if inspecting it.

"I have never had a good handle on my emotions," he says, and it doesn't really sound like an admission of any sort. "And I have never had any control at all over my opinion of others. I know that this isn't true, but you... you could never do any wrong. I feel that way about you."

Arc actually does laugh out loud at that.

"I know," Maxson adds hastily before Arc can get in a word about how completely wrong he is. "You are human, and you can make mistakes. You could be evil, if you so chose. But I can't control how I feel about people. Danse was the same, he was just like you. I looked at him and I saw someone who could never do any wrong. But I also could hate him more than anything in the world for no good reason at all. I understood that hating him was just as baseless as worshiping the ground he walked on, and I did my best not to let whatever wild emotion that I was feeling at the moment affect my decisions as Elder."

"You sure fucking didn't when it really mattered."

"I didn't. I couldn't. It was about Danse. And it wasn't just how I felt about him then. I was angry at him for a good reason, but I was angry at him simply because I was angry at him too."

"Is that why you were so easy to convince? Why you just kind of accepted it?"

"Maybe."

"Danse was going to be your Sentinel, wasn't he?"

Maxson's hand stops fidgeting with the glass, and he looks up to look Arc straight in the eye.

"He was."

"Instead, you got me."

"I did."

Arc shakes their head.

"You shouldn't be the Elder."

"And you shouldn't be the Sentinel."

"And yet here we are," Arc says.

"An Elder who can hardly keep a hold on his emotions, and a Sentinel who wants nothing more than to be rid of the Brotherhood," Maxson replies. "How fitting."

The silence between them stretches for a time.

"I'll think about it. The letter. I'll tell you if Danse gives me a response. Don't expect any."

"I won't."

Arc pushes themself off of Maxson's desk, picking up the tossed-away letter from the far corner of the desk and folding it back up neatly. Maxson has set down the glass in his hand, looking anxious.

"Keep off the alcohol," Arc warns him. "You won't feel any better afterward. Trust me."


	2. What's Best For Me?

Danse stares at Arc for a good, solid thirty seconds, before sitting down on the nearest stool.

"And you're sure that this is from the Elder?" Danse doesn't call him "Arthur" anymore. He hasn't for months now, too painful to think of the man sitting in the Elder's seat as Arthur. It's so much easier to assign a vaguer title to him, one that brings up the image of the deceased Lyons father and daughter as much as it does Arthur.

"I got it directly from his hands," Arc reassures, and seems to bite the inside of their mouth.

"What did he say?"

"He asked me to give that to you, and he let me read it when I asked him about what was in it. And then I yelled at him for a bit."

Danse gives Arc a look, but it's equal parts chastising and relieved.

"He claims that he just wants to deliver his apology in person. I don't know what to think of it," Arc says. "If he wanted to, he could have you killed without getting his hands dirty, make up some 'intel' that there was another synth copy of you in Sanctuary."

"But that would destroy what little peace exists between the Brotherhood and the Minutemen. And risk having you escape," Danse replies. "You would return and fight back for the Minutemen, he knows that."

"I'd fight back for you too."

Danse sighs and puts the letter on the countertop as Arc walks closer and wraps their arms around his waist. He drums his fingers against the metal, rereading the tight handwriting on the paper.

"What should I do?"

"It's up to you," Arc says. "But if you decide to go, I'm going with you. I know you can handle yourself in a fight, but I don't trust him not to have soldiers lurking around."

"I don't believe he's trying to kill me." Danse puts his hand on top of Arc's, and shakes his head. "I think he's being honest. But I don't know if I should go."

"If you don't want to, you don't have to. His apology doesn't mean shit if it'll only make things worse for you."

He doesn't reply for a while, thinking of how to word his next question in a way that won't make Arc upset.

"This wasn't all his fault," he finally settles on saying. Arc apparently resists the urge to make a snippy remark about that, since they bury their face in Danse's hair instead.

"He told me he shouldn't be Elder," Arc replies, squeezing their grip around Danse's waist.

"He shouldn't. It's true. But it is expected of him. The Brotherhood would never allow him to avoid that duty."

"What, they want to have someone who can hardly control his emotions in a position of power?"

"One day, he'll be the High Elder. He is a Maxson, and as the only surviving Maxson, it is his duty."

"That doesn't answer the question."

Danse sighs again.

"...yes, they do, because they value his surname more than they value his ability."

It sounds bitter, put like that, but Danse has had a lot of bitterness about that built up inside of him for years now. Arthur shouldn't have been Elder. Not at sixteen, not at twenty. He could have been a scribe, putting his sharp wit to good use as a researcher or an engineer, away from the pressures of commanding. But he'd been cursed with that name, Maxson, and so the Brotherhood had swiftly pushed him into leadership.

They'd nearly killed him, twice before.

Danse remembers, even if the Brotherhood would rather forget. And Danse remembers Arthur's hateful rage at Listening Post Bravo too, even if Arthur would rather forget.

But this is not an apology for forgetting. This is not an apology even for forgiveness.

"Leaving the front door open doesn't always mean what left is going to come back," Arc murmurs. "Sometimes all it lets in is rain and dirt."

This is true, Danse thinks. But he doesn't think that what Arc means by closing the door is quite what he thinks is closing the door.


	3. You've Gotta Take Responsibility For Your Own Shit, And Nothing Further

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyyyy I realize I didn't mention this but this isn't a Maxson/Danse ship fic and Maxson and Danse aren't being shipped in this (for my own reasons for being uncomfortable with the ship) so please don't leave shippy comments about them

Maxson stares at Danse for a good, solid thirty seconds, before putting his face in his hands.

Danse is surprisingly patient. Maxson rubs his face, trying to use the distraction to buy himself enough time to come up with the words that had fled his brain the moment he saw Danse.

"You could just start with 'I'm sorry,'" Arc suggests from the doorway where they're leaning with their back to the frame. It's a snippy remark, but it's true. Apology first, then time to talk. Danse is still standing patiently, without a look of expectation on his face.

"I did something profoundly horrible to you," Maxson starts, and he can hear the door frame's creaked protest as Arc slouches against it further in irritation. "And there's nothing I can do to take it back, no matter what I do. But I regret it, immensely so, not because of how it affects me but because I know that I hurt you."

"You hurt me more than you can imagine," Danse interrupts. Maxson nods and immediately quiets, thinking that Danse will continue, but Danse only motions for him to finish his apology.

"I know that I can't take back what I said and did. I'm sorry, Danse. I'm sorry for what I said to you and what I did to you."

He lets out a breath that he didn't know he was holding. He wants to run, suddenly, afraid of what Danse will do or say, even though he knows he deserves anything that Danse will throw at him. So instead he stands his ground against his own fear and watches Danse's face as Danse processes his words. He keeps his stance out of the parade rest he's so used to holding, hands limp at his sides instead of behind his back clasped together.

"I hope you're not expecting forgiveness," Danse says finally, after a long pause. Maxson nods.

"I'm not."

"Good, because I don't forgive you."

That doesn't sting. Maxson expects as much, and he hadn't walked into this conversation expecting any forgiveness in the first place. He isn't hear to beg Danse's forgiveness for the evil in his soul, he's here to apologize because Danse deserves an apology out of him. Maxson nods again.

"You're taking that surprisingly well," Danse says, eyebrows raising, and Maxson does scowl at that.

"I'm not here for _forgiveness_ ," he snaps, rubbing his brow, and immediately he realizes his mistake and metaphorically bites his tongue.

"Or murder?" Arc asks. They still haven't given up on that line of thought, apparently. Danse sends a look past Maxson at Arc that conveys a sense of "don't interrupt" and "don't make this worse," one that Maxson is used to having been on the receiving end of when he was younger and far more likely to blow up at problems.

"You have snipers on the roof to prevent that," he points out irritably over his shoulder. The fact that Arc told others about this meeting is less than ideal.

"It's just Preston and Ronnie," Arc retorts. "I picked people I could trust, and could fight off a Brotherhood hit squad if you ever decided to commit some more murder."

" _Arc_ ," Danse says, his voice dangerously close to anger.

Arc makes a huffing noise and crosses their arms, back sliding against the door frame further down as their slouch gets worse from frustration. But they're quiet now, at least, and Danse motions to Maxson for the two of them to continue their conversation.

"You understand why I can't forgive you, right?"

"I do," Maxson says, cutting off the "of course" that almost came out instead. "And that's... I don't think I should say 'fine,' but it isn't what I came here for."

Danse eyes him a moment, looking deep in thought, before he reaches out a hand toward Maxson.

"I need you to understand something," Danse says as Maxson puts his own hand in Danse's without hesitation. "I accept your apology and I appreciate the responsibility you're taking for your actions and words. But this situation would never have happened had you not been Elder."

"Danse, don't-"

"No. Let me finish."

Maxson almost wants to pull his hand back but Danse squeezes it, and he stays still.

"You became Elder at sixteen because not one of the Elders that came after Sarah Lyons were capable leaders, and because your surname had strength behind it. It wasn't your choice to become Elder, and it was at the insistence of others that you went from Squire to Elder overnight. You had no training, no support, and had you failed you would have been forsaken by the Brotherhood without a thought. You could have died at any moment. That amount of pressure is unhealthy for an adult, much less a child."

Maxson wants to say he wasn't a child, but he says nothing.

"You were too young and not stable enough to be Elder when you did, and you still are," Danse says. "And you're suffering the repercussions of that. Not everything that happened can be blamed entirely on you."

It feels like Danse is coming up with excuses for him, which is strange when Danse had just finished telling him that he wasn't forgiven. Maxson questioningly raises an eyebrow at Danse.

"Explanations are not excuses," Danse replies to the silent question. "You aren't excused, but it would be unreasonable to place all of the responsibility on you."

"You didn't deserve what I did and said," Maxson says.

"I know. But neither did you deserve what happened to you."

Maxson has his back to Arc, but he's still aware of the eyes boring into his shoulders from the doorway. He closes his eyes and a half-choked hiccup breaks loose.

"Arthur-"

 " _Don't_ ," he snarls, yanking his hand back. All of his anger is yet again misplaced, and he knows it this time yet he can't keep from hurling it outward. His finger looped through the pin of a figurative live grenade, a blast radius big enough to send shrapnel at Danse and Arc both. It feels like he's holding them hostage.

"Take your time," Arc says, and for once their words don't sound like hostility.

So Maxson does. He doesn't exactly smother his anger down as much as let it burn through him, let it run its course and choke itself out. Stamping it down would be like putting your foot on a spring, still until the moment you move (with the added possibility of stabbing yourself through the sole of your shoe, depending on how sharp said spring is) except now with added energy.

The ceiling creaks; someone on the roof is shifting impatiently.

"I don't-"

The ceiling creaks again.

"Stop moving up there!" Maxson yells, his head snapping upward toward the source of the creaking. So much for controlling his emotions; he hasn't thrown the figurative grenade in the room, but he's hurled it out the window onto the roof instead at the people who are definitely the least deserving of his outburst.

"Jesus Christ, Maxson, it's just the goddamn roof," Arc says, but Maxson notices that Arc's eyes do pop up to the ceiling for a moment.

"You didn't come here to yell at the architecture," Danse reminds Maxson. No, he really hasn't.

"I don't have anything else to say," Maxson replies. "I came to apologize. I suppose I've done what I need to."

"Are you going to keep shouldering complete responsibility for what wasn't your doing to begin with?" Danse asks. Why does it sound like such an accusation? Maxson scowls.

"I'll take responsibility for what I must," is the only response he can formulate that sounds reasonable enough.

"That's a 'no,' then," Arc adds. "So you're still gonna pretend like you _meant_ to traumatize yourself fifty times over in the span of your twenty-year lifetime, as a conscious decision on your part? Because that's what that means."

"No, it doesn't."

"Yes it does? You're saying you had deathclaws snack on your arm and old useless bigots play marionette with you because you meant that to happen."

"That is not what that means, Mitchell." Maxson doesn't turn around fully to give Arc the satisfaction of knowing they've hit a nerve with him.

"Then why are you taking responsibility for that too?"

"Arc is right," Danse says, and his voice drops low enough so that only Maxson can hear. "Arthur, you didn't cause that."

Maxson doesn't respond to it. He knows arguing further is counterproductive. Instead, he pulls himself back together into a military stance to regard Danse.

"That is all I have to say. I suppose this conversation has hit its conclusion."

"I suppose," Danse replies, looking somewhat disappointed.

The last conversation Maxson had with Danse, the one where there wasn't yelling and accusations and attempted murder, had ended with Danse pulling Maxson into a hug. It had been quick, and almost more humorous than anything else. Looking back, Maxson realizes that it had been the first time in a while he'd had any physical contact with anyone else, and certainly the last time he'd had physical contact with another person. There isn't anyone else Maxson trusts enough to put so close to himself, and suddenly he's hit with the full weight of knowing that he'll never have another moment of contact like that with anyone else ever again.

Danse is gone from his life.

That was his own doing.

His shoulders are shaking before he realizes he should hold himself together.

"Arthur?"

Maxson doesn't respond. He presses the back of his hand to his mouth.

A hand on his shoulder pulls him closer and he lets it guide him forward. Danse's arm wraps around him with a bit of difficulty, and Maxson grumbles to himself in frustration when he can't quite get his own free arm over Danse's shoulder.

"Goddammit," he mutters, and yanks his arms out of the sleeves of his coat. He kicks it out of the way when it lands behind him, and the cold bites at him a bit from the sudden lack of layers. But then Danse has both arms wrapped around him properly and he's warm again, burying his face in Danse's shoulder to keep himself from breaking down completely. It doesn't really prevent it.

"You can't hold it against yourself for what happened to you," Danse says again, and Maxson nods numbly into his shoulder. "Judge yourself for how you carry your own actions."

Maybe it's because he's emotionally unstable at the moment, but Maxson considers for a second that possibly, Danse is right.

* * *

"I don't understand you," Maxson says, leaning forward in his chair. Arc is twirling a pen between their fingers, having finished scribbling on the sheet of paper a very rough diagram of trade routes out of Starlight Drive-In, and it slips out and goes flying when they turn to look at Maxson. The pen bounces off of the metal wall with a noisy _BANG_ and clatters onto the floor of Maxson's quarters.

"What makes you say that?" Arc asks.

"You killed your own son for doing the unforgivable, in your eyes. I've done the unforgivable to the man you love more than anyone else, possibly more than the synth child you have, and yet you haven't tried to do anything of the sort to me."

"That pen was an assassination attempt."

"Amusing, Mitchell. That doesn't answer my question."

"I'm a terrible parent. What else did you want to hear?"

Maxson sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. He's ready to give up the line of questioning and go back to arguing over Arc's usage of haphazardly-combined robots as caravaneers, but Arc actually speaks.

"You do realize that my son was likely going to die within the week even if the Institute didn't get blown up, right?" Arc asks.

"Is that your reasoning?"

"You're not understanding me. He was going to be dead in a week, he commanded an active threat against the entirety of the Commonwealth, and he felt like it was his right to control literally all of humanity, if he was able."

"Why does that sound like you describing me, save for the limited lifespan?"

"Because the limited lifespan thing has a lot to do with the other stuff."

Maxson raises an eyebrow. Arc stares blithely at Maxson.

"You're twenty, and'll probably live at least another sixty years if you don't get shot," Arc begins. "Shaun was sixty, and fast approaching death. You have ample opportunity for self-inspection, and Shaun had absolutely none of that. No will to do it, and definitely no time. You... hell, even if you didn't already feel like doing it now, sixty years is a long time to figure out how to be better."

"Stop dancing around the topic," Maxson replies irritably.

"What the point in me killing a traumatized, overstressed twenty-year-old who's just now figuring out the stuff that's fucked up?" Arc asks. "You haven't had a chance at even figuring out who the hell you are."

Maxson blinks.

"Maybe I'll assassinate you when you're forty, who knows," Arc adds, picking up the trade route diagram and flopping the sheet of paper back and forth between their fingers. "But I think I can wait until I see how you turn out before I pass my judgement."

"Am I supposed to find that flattering?"

"Take it how you will. Besides, I'm supposed to be keeping you safe. Make sure you find your way to the right path. You know _he_ wouldn't let me be Sentinel and not keep an eye on you. If I'm having to kill you, I've failed too."

"I was unaware my Sentinel was meant to be my babysitter," Maxson says irritably. He doesn't sense any condescension from Arc, but it's not the most positive remark.

"Almost all the other adults in your life failed you miserably," Arc replies. "Listen, I don't have to like you, but what's the goddamn point of being your Sentinel if I'm just as useless as the rest of them?"

"Nobody in the Brotherhood is useless, Mitchell."

"And yet you felt the need to take responsibility for what they did. Which means they didn't, doesn't it?"

Maxson stares at Arc for a good, solid thirty seconds, before settling back in his seat, deep in thought.

**Author's Note:**

> (Please don't leave comments about "Maxson isn't an asshole in this!" or something like that.)


End file.
